


Favorite Son

by somanyfeels



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abandonment, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bandits & Outlaws, Depression, Father Arthur, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Abigail Roberts Marston/Arthur Morgan, Implied Relationships, Jealous Arthur, Protective Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18550126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyfeels/pseuds/somanyfeels
Summary: When Arthur found out Eliza was pregnant he tried to be responsible, he wanted to leave and do right by her and their child.  He wanted to take care of them, but Dutch said if he left he couldn't ever come back.  Arthur had been raised by the gang, he didn't know if he could survive without it.  Arthur was forced to choose between his two separate families.John was different.  When Abigail declared him to be Jack's father, he ran.  He could have had all of it, the family and the gang without issue.  Arthur tried to understand how he could leave all of them when he was able to keep all of them.  It was difficult, since Arthur had been forced to choose.  Still, he did right by the woman and the boy, made sure they were safe despite John's disinterest in having everything Arthur had lost.It didn't matter, in the end.  Dutch welcomed John back with open arms.





	Favorite Son

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily inspired by the journal entry after Arthur takes Jack fishing where he says he should have married Abigail before she fell in love with that FOOL MARSTON. It ended up being a rather long drabble about Arthur, fatherhood, and the choice (or lack there of) that they all made.

Arthur had known there would always be different rules for him and John.  Ever since they practically saved the boy off of the gallows and towed him along behind them, he had been Dutch’s favorite.  Arthur noticed it, but always held his tongue. He didn’t care. Sure, John got fed first each night, John got to sit by Dutch’s side around the fire as the man preached about life and freedom and the virgin lands of the West.  What mattered was that Arthur was loyal, always would be, even if no one saw it.

 

He knew it was undeniable the moment John walked back into camp after being gone for a year.  Dutch opened his arms with a smile and welcomed him home like the prodigal son that he was. There was no question of John’s loyalty, his duties, or what he had done with his time in that year.  Dutch dusted off John’s spot by his side and that was that.

 

He tried not to be bitter, but years ago Arthur got a very different reaction.

 

Eliza was pregnant.  It was different from Mary, where he was going to leave the gang to try and win her heart, fight some losing battle against his nature just to have her.  He had only entertained that thought for a moment. But with Eliza Arthur knew he had to leave. He had a responsibility. A child.

 

He never questioned if the boy was his or not.  He took her at her word. She held his hands in hers and looked at him like she was terrified and told him that she was pregnant.  That he was the father. And he packed his bags.

 

“You’re sure about this?”  Dutch had said, walking up to Arthur when he had begun to pack what he was taking onto his horse.

 

“I think so.”  Arthur said, not even looking over to him.

 

“You think so?  That’s all? You think?”  Dutch said. Arthur knew he was angry.  He was a good gun and never said no to a job, even if he did hesitate once or twice.

 

“She’s pregnant, Dutch.  All I know for sure is that.”

 

“She is a waitress at a saloon, how many boys do you think ride through here and into her bed before leaving again?”  Dutch said, his voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned in close. His breath had been hot, Arthur remembered. Their faces were inches apart.  The man spoke with uncertainty.

 

Arthur knew how uncertain these things were.  Maybe she would lose the baby in a few weeks. Maybe she would die giving birth.  Maybe the baby wasn’t even his. But he wanted to be there just in case. If he wasn’t the father, she still picked him.  That meant something. He may not have been in love with her like he had been with Mary, but he cared about her. She had cried, when she told him, and Arthur had held her.

 

“It’s mine.  I gotta take care of them.”  Arthur said, nodding to himself.

 

“Then by all means, take care of them.  Give them money. Give them time. Build a damn house for them if you feel the need.  But you still ride with us.” Dutch said. He didn’t lose any of the intensity as he stood close to Arthur, his hand on the younger man’s saddle, blocking him from climbing up.  “You’ve been in this gang for nearly ten years. We need you.”

 

“Eliza needs me more.  You can get new guns.” Arthur said.  Before Dutch had come to sew his doubts, Arthur had been entirely certain he was leaving.  “If you need me, I’ll ride with you, but my home needs to be with my family.”

  
“If you leave, you can’t come back.  This gang is a family too, we need loyalty, not people who believe they can come and go as the wind changes.  Now, we’ll still be in the area. We’ll bring you back to her every few weeks, just stay with us.” Dutch said, stepping back to give Arthur enough room to breathe.  “You want to be a father, its admirable, but if you commit to them then you better commit for life. We won’t wait for you.”

 

In the end, Dutch had won.  Arthur just couldn’t stay put with her, couldn’t bring himself to defy the man who raised him those past ten years for a life settled down in some cattle town.  And Dutch had kept his word, every few weeks they came back and Arthur went to his family. He got to be there for the birth at least, shooed away by an older woman from town as he waited outside, until he heard the screaming.  The baby wailing when it came into the world, lungs so strong it nearly shook him to the core. And Hosea was there with him, patting him on the back, telling him to go meet the baby once he was let inside. Arthur didn’t doubt Isaac was his blood, not when the boy had his blue eyes and sandy hair despite his mama’s brown everything.

 

Arthur had liked fatherhood, even though he only got to be a father a few days a month.  He liked Isaac's crudely drawn pictures that he kept between the pages of his journal. He liked being called ‘Pa’ and having someone run towards him every time they saw him, eyes wide and smile big as if seeing Arthur was the best thing to happen to them.  He liked the silly games, playing cowboy games in the yard. Every single time Arthur played the outlaw, every single time he fell to the ground and played dead when he lost the draw, and every single time Isaac would hop on his chest and giggle like a maniac.

 

And Eliza would fix them supper and ask him if he was staying or going.  Every time, Arthur said he was going. She wasn’t upset, she didn’t argue, but Arthur had seen the disappointment written clearly on her face.  He left them with money, almost everything he had earned while he was away except for a single handful of cash to get him by. Each time she said she didn’t need it and each time Arthur left it for them anyway.

 

Every time, a few days every few weeks.  And it went on like that for years until…

 

Arthur didn’t hate John for leaving.  It wasn’t his fault the rules were different.  It wasn’t John’s choice to be Dutch’s undeclared favorite.  It was just how things were. Arthur learned to be fine with it, with his place in the hierarchy always just below John, who could run away from having a child and be welcome home and Arthur wanted to be a father but was told to never come back.

 

He tried to stop being angry.

 

He tried to understand.  John said the boy wasn’t his and so he ran away.  Arthur tried to see it like that, but he couldn’t.  It was possible. Abigail was a prostitute. No shame in it, but they all had her.  Even Arthur did, one night, on one drunken occasion when he was lonely and she had smiled at him and for a little while he wondered if he should marry her.  It had just been the one time, but she insisted the boy was Marston’s. Had said so since the day she found out. And Arthur tried to understand John, who when told he was the father immediately started on his doubts.  John, who when the boy was a year old, he ran away from all of them for a full year.

 

If Arthur had been given the chance to stay with the gang and have his woman and his child with him, close and safe nearby, he would have fallen to his knees thankful.  But Arthur had to leave his family behind because if he left the gang he couldn’t come back. And John got to bring his family along with the gang, and he left anyway.

 

Arthur helped where he could.  He may not have been the chosen father, but he didn’t like seeing the woman struggle by herself.  He would hold Jack, coo at him and whisper old ghost stories to him so Abigail could have a moment of peace.  He made sure the boy didn’t wander off when she managed to get some sleep. Arthur watched him, even when he was doing other things he always kept half of his attention on Jack.

 

The boy was a wanderer, just like all of them.  His short legs toddled to the edge of camp before Arthur stepped in and turned him around.  He curiously waddled up to the fire before Abigail stepped in and yanked his hand back from it.  Jack was safe with them. Arthur dedicated half of his energy each and every day to making sure Jack was safe.

 

If Jack needed shoes, Arthur was the one to take Abigail into town and buy them.  If Jack fell and got a bump or scrape, Arthur was the one to pick him up and help him feel brave while Abigail patched him up and kissed the small injuries.  If Jack needed a break from camp, Arthur would take the two of them to a meadow he found, lots of soft grass for the boy to run through as Arthur sketched out quick pictures of the flowers he saw.  They made a day of it, at least once a week. Every week for the entire year.

 

Arthur wondered.  They all did. They all had her, leading up to her pregnancy.  It was natural for a man to wonder about things, but she had chosen John and the rest of the gang was intent to leave it at that.  But Jack would want to play a game and Arthur would play the pretend outlaw, fall to the ground and play dead as Jack giggled and ran towards him.  And Arthur would wonder. He would look at Jack, at the shape of his eyes and the curve of his nose and pull up those painful memories, and wonder.

 

If Abigail had chosen him, Arthur never would have left.

 

But she chose John.

 

He had seen the holes in the boy’s pants, the way the hem started riding up the leg and showed too much ankle.  It was Arthur’s idea to take them to town and get him some new clothes. If Abigail opened her mouth about money, Arthur always told her not to worry.

 

Abigail rode on one horse, Arthur on another, and they would pass Jack back and forth between them.

 

“Faster, Uncle Arthur!”  Jack would squeal as soon as he was settled against Arthur’s chest.  The boy wanted to fly, his arms outstretched as the wind pushed back their hair, and Arthur sped down the road faster than lightning.  He would loop around, take Jack through some hills and patches of trees, just to turn and find Abigail on the road again, laughing at how breathless the two of them were, their hair sticking up on the ends.

 

They didn’t always have time to make their own clothes, despite the money it saved.  Abigail insisted she just needed the fabric, but Arthur got Jack measured and got a few pairs of pants ordered, a few in some larger sizes for later on.  Abigail always argued against it, even when he got them all ice cream and Jack a pocket full of candy. He offered to buy Abigail a new dress, but she opted for shoes instead.

 

When the shopping was finished, Arthur had taken them to a quiet spot near a lake.  He let Jack wear his hat, the brim falling down over his eyes but he still tried to run and play, pretending he was a ‘big giant cowboy, just like Uncle Arthur’.  Arthur scribbled in his journal, wishing he had talent enough to capture the feeling of the day down onto paper.

 

“Thank you, Arthur.”  Abigail said, sitting in the grass and enjoying the breeze.  She didn’t get out of camp nearly as much as most of the others.  Arthur was usually the only one to allow both her and Jack to tag along.  “Everything these past few months, it means the world to us.”

 

“I understand.”  Arthur had said. He didn’t think there was much to say on the matter.  It just felt right.

 

“I still can’t believe it, John leaving like that.  I thought for sure he would be happy. I named his son after him, and he held him, and looked at him, and still left.”  Abigail said, her voice a whisper as Jack ran circles around them, cheering and giggling. “But really, thank you. I don’t think I could have done this without you.”

 

“Jack’s a good boy.  You’re a lucky woman.  It’s Marston that's the fool.”  Arthur said. He had decided long ago that John was an idiot.  It was the only thing that made sense, John was an idiot, so he left behind the family he was given the chance to have and keep.  Arthur didn’t even get that chance. He would have lost everything if he stayed with Eliza. He lost everything when he left her.

 

“Still, I’m thankful for you.  I really am. Jack needs a man in his life and I’m glad it’s you.  You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan. Not like his father.” Abigail had said.

 

Arthur wasn't a good man.  He knew he wasn’t but he wasn’t going to ruin the mood of the day by arguing with her.  If he got Jack to smile and laugh as much as he had done that day, then maybe he wasn’t as rotten as he thought.  Not all the way through.

 

“You ever think maybe you were wrong?  About John? I don’t know, maybe Jack wasn’t his...maybe he was…”  Arthur twirled his hand, trying to unravel his words as they got lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

 

Abigail looked at him, stared at him for a good minute, her eyes deep and thoughtful before she turned back to Jack.  She probably wondered as much as all the rest of them. She saw Jack every day, saw every inch of his face and every expression he had ever made.  Arthur wondered which man she saw staring back at her every day, which of them she thought she saw. Maybe it was really Marston, maybe Abigail was just another fool in love who wanted him and a family despite all the doubts and all of the wondering.

 

Arthur never would get an answer to that question.  He tried asking once or twice, but he never got all the words out and he never got a proper answer.

 

Arthur didn’t stop though, he kept taking care of them and made sure they were alright.  They were safe with the gang, as safe as a mother and child could be despite all the troubles in their world.  For the rest of that year, Arthur kept making sure they had what they needed. Warm clothes for winter, enough food to keep the baby fat on Jack’s cheeks, and free time to run and play and enjoy some peace and quiet out of the camp.

 

He did it, even when it hurt.  Even when he felt the heavy weight of his own memories and his own family weigh down on his shoulders.  Arthur would start drinking early in the day, his head in his hands whenever he couldn’t stop thinking about them.  He would look at his life now and he couldn’t help but think about what could be different if he stayed with Eliza. Or if he had never even met her and ran off when Mary wanted him to.  But no, after nearly twenty years, he was still with Dutch.

 

He drank enough to make even Uncle call him sloppy.  There was a pile of empty glass bottles near his tent and a constant sway in how he walked.  He overheard Dutch and Hosea muttering to the newer gang members whenever Arthur walked by that he just ‘gets like this sometimes’.  No one ever stopped him. He never got so drunk he couldn’t shoot straight, or stay upright on his horse, and for a band of outlaws that was the best they could ever ask.

 

Jack didn’t understand though.  He kept trying to run up to Arthur, ask for a ride on his shoulders or a game of gladiators, but every time Abigail would show up and tell Jack to let Arthur have some peace today.  He didn’t understand that sometimes Arthur wishes he could go back in time and be with his family, go back and choose to stay with them. He would rather have been shot and buried beside them, would rather be dead than to feel that empty, raw place in his chest.  Guilt perhap, but grief mostly.

 

“But Uncle Arthur promised to take me riding today.”  Jack had said. It was a sunny evening in the middle of summer, when the sunlight lingered in the sky for hours.

 

Arthur was drunk, as he often was those bad days.  He was bent over the table, his head buried in his arms, and he felt more guilt.  He had promised Jack that, earlier that week. He had been drunk then too, told Jack they would go in a few days, and yet here Arthur was.

 

“Uncle Arthur isn’t feeling well.  Let him get some rest.” Abigail said.  Arthur hated that. It made him sound like he was sick, down with a stomach bug instead of drinking his days away.  “Come on, son. Let’s get you ready for bed.”

 

“But it’s still sunny, mama.”

 

“The sun don’t make the rules, I do.”  Abigail said, her hands on her shoulders.

 

Jack stomped his foot, still prone to tantrums.  “I don’t want to.”

 

“Now you come on.”

 

“Go to bed, Isaac!”  Arthur said quickly. He glared at them, his vision swaying and he leaned over in his seat.

 

The camp stared at him as if they were the ones who were seeing ghosts.  They watched Arthur as if they were seeing him as some dead boy in their presence.  Arthur didn’t care. The name had tumbled out of his mouth like he really was getting sick and now he was choking on it.  He was left at the table, watching as Abigail picked up her son and Jack peeked over her shoulder at him. Arthur wiped the name off of his mouth with the back of his hand and watched them leave, watched Jack stare right back at him, and he kept on wondering.

 

He got out of it, like he always did.  Arthur needed a few more days, but he cut back on his drinking and on his self-pity, and those names never left his mouth again.  He took Jack riding, like he had promised, let him stretch out his arms and fly like he liked to. He took Jack into the woods, where the deer ran and jumped out of their way.  He stopped and let Jack climb on the rocks that he found, Arthur’s hand always lingering near his back to catch him if he falls.

 

He apologized to Abigail.

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”  She said. It was laundry day and it was her turn, Arthur found her scrubbing the clothes down by the water.

 

“I feel like I have to.  I did promise the boy. I just…”  He trailed off. He wasn’t ever sure how to say the grief was eating him alive.

 

“I understand.  I do, you know.”  She said. Abigail didn’t look up at him, but her hands slowed their work.  “Something like that isn’t something you can just come away clean from. If Jack ever… I would end up a lot worse than you.”

 

“I promised him and I was too drunk and I let both of you down.”  Arthur said.

 

Abigail shook her head.  “You didn’t. You’re a good man for all you’ve done already.  We ain’t your responsibility.”

 

“But what if you are though?”  Arthur asked. It was the closest he ever got to fully asking the question.  “You and Jack. What if I am responsible for… you know?”

 

“I know.  What difference would it make?  The boy’s name is John Marston the Second.”  Abigail said.

 

“He doesn’t have to change it.”

 

Finally she looked up at him.  Her eyes pierced through him like bullets.  “You would be satisfied with that. Your son’s name being John Marston Jr?”  She asked, almost accusingly.

 

“I could be.  Names aren’t what matter.”  Arthur said. He felt vulnerable under her eyes, as if he had to prove he was worthy of even the suggestion.  She had declared John the father without a second of hesitation and the man had run. Here Arthur was volunteering, and he felt the need to defend himself to the title.

 

Abigail looked him up and down, her shoulders falling as she let out a sigh.  “My son isn’t a replacement boy.”

 

“I don’t need a replacement boy.  Jack is a dreamer how he is.” Arthur said.

 

She let her arms fall to her lap and looked him straight in the eyes.  “Would it make a difference? If I told you he was yours, would you treat him better?  If I said he wasn’t, would you treat him worse? No more riding with you? No more shopping trips?”  She asked.

 

Arthur shook his head.  “Nothing would change, either way.  But if he was, I would raise him still.  If he’s not, I would still raise him if you wanted me to.”

 

Abigail laughed, shaking her head and returning to her work.  “You’re about a dumb as John is, Arthur Morgan. A better man, by far, but not a lick of sense.”  She said. She only paused a moment, a sigh escaping her lips. “I said before the boy was John’s.  I mean it still. But having you around means the world to both of us, Jack especially.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.”  Arthur said. He didn’t know if he was disappointed or not.  Abigail was set in her words at least, even if the man she chose didn’t share in that vision of a family she did.  Either she truly believed John was the father, or she was too in love with him to see otherwise. “I’m still here. Anything in the world you two want or need and you let me know.”

 

Arthur was honest.  He didn’t believe her when she said he was a good man, time and again, but he prided himself in being honest and loyal.  Nothing did change. He still wondered, still took Jack out for rides and played those silly childhood games. He still took them both to town for supplies, to give them things they both needed for themselves.

 

Jack would sit on his lap around the campfire and they would sing along to Karen’s songs and everyone was happy.  They worked, they made their money, and they were at peace with it all. Arthur almost considered it a decent life.  The tents could be more comfortable and he would prefer getting shot at less often, but they were free. Arthur could continue on like this forever.

 

Eventually though, John came back.  He wandered into camp one day on the back of a horse, filthy and hungry.  Dutch saw him first and really, he was the only one who needed to see John to make any of it matter.

 

Arthur had heard Dutch’s voice from the other side of camp, the loud cheer and hearty laugh.  He heard Dutch shout a “Welcome back son!” and then all of them knew. Arthur looked to Abigail, who pulled Jack into her arms and walked in a trance towards the growing sound of commotion.  Arthur followed not far after her.

 

Miss Grimshaw had John hunched over a barrel of water, scrubbing his face and hands.  Dutch was grinning from ear to ear, scooping out the first helping of stew that Pearson had refused to let any of them touch yet.

 

“Sit down, John.  Come sit.” Dutch said, waving him over.

 

Arthur couldn’t help but stare as it happened right before his eyes.  A year. A whole year, and John was being patted on the back and fed. Dutch’s words echoed in his head, screaming at him as they got louder and louder.

 

_‘We need loyalty, not people who believe they can come and go as the wind changes.’_

 

And Arthur had been loyal.  To every last one of them. In the end, his reward was nothing but a heavy burden of regret and grief.  So heavy he almost felt his feet sinking into the ground with it.

 

“Now, where in the hell have you been?”  Dutch said, sitting down next to John. He looked up, seeing all the rest of them watching like a gawking crowd.  “Off with you. Give us a moment.”

 

Arthur didn’t move.  He didn’t think he could.   _‘We won’t wait for you’._  Those were the words Dutch had hissed to him, all those years back, telling him not to leave the gang.  And Arthur had listened, too afraid of a life without the gang, without the chance to give in to his nature, because they would have left him behind and not welcomed him back.  And his family had been murdered for nothing, simply because he hadn’t been there.

 

“Come on, Arthur.”  Abigail said. She turned her back to the two men.  She reached out and tugged on Arthur’s sleeve. She lead him back to his tent and had Jack sit close to him, setting a book in front of him.  Arthur knew what to do, read Jack the story and help him sound out the words. He was still young, still not getting the hang of reading, but he did it anyway.

 

He wanted to get his mind off of it.  He wanted to ignore the happy sounds around the fire of John and Dutch catching up and being together again.  He didn’t want to think about how John must be so favored by God that he could come back and still have everything.

 

He watched as Abigail walked back towards him and he knew she would forgive him.  Love made everyone stupid and she loved John with all of her heart. She would be angry, but in the end Arthur knew John would be forgiven.  John, the lucky son of a bitch, could come back after a year and he still had the gang, he still had his woman, and he still had a happy, living boy.  Had it been Arthur, things would have been different. Arthur got threats, an ultimatum to choose, and a dead family. John got the family and the gang to coexist and he still left it, left both of them for no reason other than to deny what Arthur had wanted so much.  And he had the nerve to come back as if nothing had happened.

 

Arthur tried not to hate him for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think. If you liked it, if you liked Arthur, anything at all.


End file.
